


Past The Desert Wind

by The Jingo (The_King_in_White)



Series: Beneath A Bleeding Star [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, House Martell, House Targaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_King_in_White/pseuds/The%20Jingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without a wolf-girl of the North to beguile him, Rhaegar never strays. But Westeros will not tolerate a madman on the Iron Throne for long, and it still bleeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, and I make no profit writing any fanfiction of it. Further, I'd like it to be clear that in the case of any similarity between anything I write and the future work of any author writing the original work, that I hold no rights to any fanfiction. I make no claim to monetary compensation, and never will. For any intent and purpose, I cede any monetary rights to any fanfiction work to their respective authors.
> 
> (AN): This is the prequel story to Wildfire, and covers the events of Rhaegar’s Rebellion through the eyes of the Prince and Elia of Dorne. As such, it’s not necessary to read Wildfire before this, and neither is it necessary to read this before Wildfire. At least, not at this point.

Every bone in his body ached. Tired grit stung the corners of Rhaegar’s eyes as he rode through the gates to the Red Keep. Dents marred the surface of his ebony plate mail, the several of the red studded rubies knocked loose by a glancing blow from his rebel kinsman’s hammer.

Distant cousins though they might have been, Robert and Rhaegar had met more than once since the Baratheon heir was born. Rhaegar liked Robert little, given how impetuous and passionate as Rhaelle’s grandson was. But the Prince of Dragonstone could freely admit that the other man was a peerless warrior.

It was those meetings in their shared, dusty memories that had likely saved Rhaegar’s life. The Targaryen was a renowned warrior himself, but he’d fallen beneath Robert’s martial skill. When Robert had knocked him to the ground and drawn back for a killing blow, those blue eyes took in the sprawled form of the Baratheon Lord’s own cousin. And Robert had _hesitated_.

 _‘No man is so cursed as the kinslayer.’_ Said the Septons.

Rhaegar had tasted the copper dregs of his own mortality. He could have died if Arthur hadn’t appeared from the thick of battle with a bellow to drive Robert off. There was no way to tell if Robert would have spared him or stove his chest in had the Sword of the Morning not shown.

Touching mailed fingers over the bloodcrusted and dented ebony, Rhaegar idly wondered how many killing blows he’d survived during the Battle of Ashford. They’d won in the end, Robert disappearing and the loyalist forces driving the shattered remnants of the rebel army back to Storm’s End. Where the Fat Flower promptly crowed at his own strategic acumen and laid siege to the castle.

“Da!” crowed from beside his horse, and Rhaegar startled. The mottled black and white sandsteed that had been a wedding gift from his good-brother and Prince of Dorne shifted anxiously between the Prince’s knees. Turning his attention to the side, Rhaegar blinked as he took in his nervous looking wife and gurgling daughter through the slit in his dragon crowned helm.

“Rhaenys.” He replied with real warmth, pulling the helm free from his head and restraining a wince as it clung to his sweat and blood soaked strands. Sliding off the steed in a smooth movement, he gave the horse a grateful pat to the flank before passing the reins to a hovering groom.

The two year old girl waved a chubby hand towards him, the other arm clenching tightly to Elia’s red gown where her mother supported her on one hip.

Rhaegar hastily tugged off a blood crusted gauntlet to he could take her hand without getting any of the filth onto her dusky skin. Pressing a courtly kiss to the back of Rhaenys hand, Rhaegar pushed away his fatigue to give a small smile. “How is my darling girl?”

Giggling in delight at her father’s attention, the girl beamed back up “Good, Da!”

Straightening, Rhaegar placed a dutiful kiss to his wife’s cheek. “Elia. Is all well?” The faintly overwhelmed look on her face suggested that all was not well, as far as Rhaegar could tell. Perhaps she’d been spared the sight of blood and gore until now? He’d made sure to keep her away from his father when he could, to shield her and his children from the sight of Aerys burning men for pleasure.

“All is well, my lord husband. Aegon is in the nursery.” Elia headed off his next question, smiling dutifully on her own. “We’ll leave you to your rest. I have heard it was a hard-won victory.” Smiling down at her daughter with real warmth, the Princess of Dorne drifted away with her retinue of handmaidens.

Lewyn Martell gave the tired Prince of Dragonstone a nod of acknowledgement before the Kingsguard knight followed his niece and grand-niece.

Nodding at the shoulder shake from Jon Connington, Rhaegar followed his exhausted fellow warriors and lords further into the belly of the Red Keep.  


* * *

Freshly washed and shaved, with a dragon emblazoned velvet doublet stretching across his chest, Rhaegar dropped to a knee before the spiralling steps that led up to the Iron Throne. A faint patch of black was visible from the corner of his vision, and Rhaegar suppressed a shudder at the human shaped mark of ash.

It seemed even months after the Rising of the North, Aerys persisted in refusing to have the spot he’d ordered Brandon Stark burnt alive to be cleaned.

“Hail, Your Grace. I, the Prince of Dragonstone return with tidings of victory.”

Not for the first time, Rhaegar was struck by the fierce regret of having permitted his father’s madness to reign unchecked. He should have accepted when the Lords Stark and Tully and Arryn offered him the soldiers to depose his father. Or at least not spent so much of his time dithering about if it was ideal to call a Great Council to force abdication _yet_.

Evidently he’d long since missed his chance.

“We are pleased to hear such, Our son.” Aerys’ voice was a raspy growl, low and beastly, just the man it came from. Tangled silver strands of both hair and beard mingled in filth. Long curving nails hung dirty and uncut from paranoia. Purple eyes sank into a hollow and bony face, starved and mad. Even the Iron Throne wasn’t free from defilement, with rusty stains betraying where the unworthy King had sliced himself time and again.

“Did you give Our traitorous kinsman to the flames?”

Rhaegar almost faltered at the lusty tone gurgling up from his father’s throat. Even the King’s own kin were not free of Aerys’ murderous and cruel intent. “No. Robert fled the field. None known his location now.”

“Failure!” Aerys shrieked, high and keening. The King’s orbs rolled in their sockets, darting back and forth to take in some unknown phantasm visible only to the Mad King. “Miserable wretch! How are We to punish the traitor filth if even Our own flesh and blood fails us!”

“Father-“

“You are no son of Our’s!”

Turning his gaze away from the pitying look in Gerold Hightower’s face, Rhaegar stared squarely up at his trembling and hissing sire. “Father, perhaps we may win this war through a negotiation!”

Utter silence. Licking suddenly dry lips, Rhaegar opened his mouth to press on, only to snap back at the unholy shriek Aerys gave.

“Negotiation! We are the Dragon! We do not negotiate with traitors and low beasts! We will crush them! We will burn them!” The ravings went on for a long moment before Aerys pointed a jabbing gnarled finger at his son. “You’ve gone too soft fucking that little Dornish slut of your’s. Our own child, corrupted by the wiles of a desert snake!”

Narrowing his eyes in paranoid suspicion, Aerys almost lunged from the throne with how far the King leaned forward. “Perhaps you’ve begun to make plots of your own, nestled between the slut’s thighs. Little drops of poison she dribbled into Our heir’s ears while he was fucking her cunt...”

“I make no plots, Your Grace.” Truthfully, Rhaegar harbored no thoughts for treachery. He intended to win the war and protect his father’s throne. Afterwards – there would be a reckoning, which would be the best for everyone. Even his father.

“Leave Us!”  


* * *

Aegon gave a burp, releasing his mother’s nipple as the babe was entirely sated with milk. Returned to his crib, Rhaegar’s only son yawned sleepily before dropping his lids with tiredness.

Smiling softly, Elia pulled her shift back up over her breast. Tugging the Targaryen black and red stitched gown took a little more pulling, but after a moment the Dornishwoman managed to pull her clothes back into order. She ignored the vague disapproval the wet nurse tutted with. She might have been a lady, and breast feeding her own child as often as she did may have been uncouth, but Elia hardly cared. It was simply part of her bond with her child, and no Rhoynar woman would refuse to breastfeed her own children given the choice.

Rhaenys was dozing in her own child’s bed, black kitten curled up by her side and purring lowly.

Smoothing the wrinkles of her gown, Elia leaned back in her armchair to enjoy the quiet company of her children. Both Rhaenys and Aegon were sweet children. Affectionate to their mother, to their grandmother and uncle before the pair had been shipped off to Dragonstone, and to their father.

Though not their grandfather.

Elia frowned at the mere thought of the Mad King. It was almost absurd how someone as kind and gentle as Rhaella could spring from the same seed as Aerys. Or how someone as vile and cruel as Aerys could sire her dutiful and melancholy husband.

Rhaegar was not bad, as far as husbands went. There was no love in their marriage. But the Prince of Dragonstone was courteous and thoughtful. He listened when she expressed her thoughts, treated her gently enough, and was affectionate with his children. Most women – especially the highborn – could expect no better than that from a man.

The Prince was easy enough to look at as well, Elia smirked wryly. Not that her husband spent all that much time in her bed. After getting a child on her, Rhaegar retreated to his own rooms. And after the Maesters declared her unable to have more children, her husband had not lain with her even once.

Which was little more than she could have expected truly. Her mother had been clear enough about the opinion of Andals on sex for pleasure when she’d been a child, and few men had ever expressed much interest in the Princess of Dorne with her fragile health. Not when her parents had chased off any Dornishman who looked at her twice in her childhood, and not after coming to King’s Landing with her vastly more attractive an healthy handmaiden.

At least Rhaegar was not one to stare at Ashara. She’d been spared the social humiliation and whispers that would follow behind an unfaithful husband for the early years of her marriage, though after the Maesters declared her further infertility, whispers had sprung up.

Of how Rhaegar should and would set her aside for a healthier woman. Of how foreign Dornish sluts were good for nothing but a quick fuck, and Elia not even good enough for that. Of how her husband was the father of Ashara’s bastard, and the Dayne had fled back to Dorne to flee a scorned wife’s anger.

Elia would be a liar if she claimed it didn’t hurt or embarrass her. It was through no fault of her own that she was born with a delicate constitution, or that she could give Rhaegar no more children. But Elia had been ignoring slander and malice since childhood, and the tongues of Dornishwomen were far sharper than the ones to be found in King’s Landing.

It would hurt less if Elia had faith that the rumors weren’t true. Fake smiles and laughter she could strike back and deal with. The very real possibility that she might be cast off she could not. Rhaegar had no love for her, only duty, and the prophecy that her husband spent so much time worrying over would surely drive him to throw her away.

Swallowing thickly, Elia pressed a hand over her warm brow before composing herself. Banishing errant thoughts, the Princess rose to her feet in as much grace she could muster and offered the wet nurse a courtly smile. “I think I shall retire to my rooms for the night, and take my supper there. Bring my children to me if they ask for me or their father.”

Ignoring the murmured affirmative the servant gave, the Martell swept from the room.

Outside, clouds rolled in front of the sun, and the first patters of rain began to hit the glass windowpanes.

* * *

  
A crash echoed through the room as Rhaegar’s door was thrown open. Reflexes borne from warfare had the Prince throwing himself from his sheets at the first echo, one hand groping for the long steel dagger he kept hidden under his pillow.

A pair of men garbed in the black and red Targaryen livery poured into his room. Carrying a torch, one of them raised it high while the other squinted through the dark.

“What is the meaning of this?” Rhaegar barked, rising to his feet from where he was crouched behind the bed.

One of the men grimaced beneath his half-helm, holding out a pair of chains. “Well uh, milord. We’re here for you.” The other jostled the speaker with a low curse, and the grimace was swept away for a blank expression. Taking a deep breath, the foremost one straightened with an official air.

“Rhaegar of House Targaryen, you’re under arrest for treason against the Iron Throne. We’re here to take you before the King for your judgement.”

Treason? Incredulity bubbled up. He’d had his disagreements with his father, but _treason_? Sweat beaded on his brow as Rhaegar palmed the dragonbone handled Valyrian steel dagger. But then, his father was a madman. “What if I refuse?” Rhaegar ventured cautiously.

“Then we’re ordered to take you dead or alive, mi’lord.”

Swallowing thickly, Rhaegar shook his head. Lightheadedness was pressing in, a slow thrum of heat building in his veins. “Then would you look the other way? Perhaps I overpowered you. Perhaps I was never here.”

The rearmost one frowned sympathetically. “As much as we’d prefer it... we can’t. If we don’t take you, the King will surely burn us alive for failure.”

“I could kill you.” Rhaegar pointed out darkly, measuring the distance with a practiced eye. Fingers and muscles tightened in preparation.

“Well then it’s between a definite death, and a possible death. And I think I’d much rather take the second, mi’lord.”

“No.” Rhaegar sighed, shaking his head with an air of pity. “They’re both a definite death.” Then he was moving, arm whipping up to toss the dagger at the first solider. It took the man through the eye as Rhaegar dove over the bed, rolling towards the armor stand in the opposite corner.

The second soldier cursed, pulling his castle forged blade with fumbling hands even as Rhaegar reached the set of armor that had been set out and polished for him while his other set was being attended by renowned smithies on the Street of Steel. The soldier dove for him with a pale face, dark eyes shining brightly above a half-terrified face.

 _‘Just a boy.’_ Rhaegar thought as he took in the young soldier’s boyish cheeks. Pulling up his shield, he shoved the ebony kite shape between himself and the oncoming blade. Sparks shone in the darkened room, the guard’s torch dropped to the ground and sputtering weakly. _‘A green as grass child.’_

Stepping in to the whirl of steel, the Targaryen shoved the flat of his shield into the soldier’s face, grimacing at the loud clang it gave off when it collided with the guard’s halfhelm. But it did its job to daze the young man, and Rhaegar slammed the shield into his enemy’s face again, knocking the soldier to the ground.

Murmuring “More’s the pity.” Rhaegar aiming the point of the kite towards the guard’s uncovered face and drove the dull steel spike through an unguarded eye. Blood splattered over the pale white of his nightclothes, and the Prince grimaced.

The battle fever receded, leaving his hands slightly shaky when he reached for his blade. Pulling the sword with a scrape of steel on steel, Rhaegar stumbled numbly to the door. _Treason._ He had to get out – he needed to leave. Find somewhere safe to hide so he could think on what to do. Somewhere to keep the children.

The children.

Heat rushed back through him, and Rhaegar was running down the hall. “Elia!” he roared, turning the corner and barely stopping to rake his sword through another guard’s throat. Crimson splashed over his face, painting his skin and clothes red.

There was a faint clash of steel and howls of pain at the edge of his hearing, and Rhaegar sucked in a breath. Fear licked at his insides. Fear for the lives of his children. Fear for the life of his wife. Fear for his own life. Fear for the consequences this night would have on the realm. Fear of pain. Fear of death. Fear.

Howling like a beast, Rhaegar rounded the last turn and fell on a group of men barging on the bolted door to the nursery. Blood spilled as he struck through the neck of a soldier from the behind. Curses and shouts of surprise rang out, silenced by the pounding in his ears and the shouts tearing from his throat.

“ _Elia!_ ”

Pain burnt through his arm as a blade nicked it, a warm trickle of blood running down his arm as he whirled through the dance of steel and death. Cutting down man after man while he screamed for his children.

Then the door was thrown open, white armor shining beneath the red torchlight like a coal as Lewyn Martell carved a bloody furrow into the ranks of Aerys’ men. With sword in one hand and spear in the other, Elia’s uncle was a reaver, spilling life with all the ease a knife cuts cheese.

A wrench nearly tore his arm from its socket when a mace caught the inside of his shield and threw it open, leaving Rhaegar’s entire left side unprotected. A smirk of triumph crossed a bearded guard’s face between one heartbeat and the next.

_‘So this is how I die.’_

Then Dawn was there, burning with inner light. Shining like starfire, pale as milkglass, cleaving steel and flesh alike. “Rhaegar.” Was breathed into his ear as a greeting, and the Prince knew he could trust his side to his dearest friend.

The arrival of the Sword of the Morning struck fear into the most stout of hearts, and not long after Arthur’s blade appeared the knot of soldiers broke. The survivors fled in blind retreat, leaving their dead and dying behind.

“My Prince.” Lewyn offered cautiously, not lowering his guard. They’d fought on the same side, for a heated skirmish. But the Dornish don’t trust so easily, and the suspicion in the Martell’s gaze asked a silent question.

_Are you my niece’s husband, or your father’s son?_

Shoving his bloodied steel into its sheath, Rhaegar looked into the dark room over Lewyn’s shoulder. “Uncle.” His eyes couldn’t pierce the gloom, and he took an incautious step forward. “Is Elia safe? Are the children safe?”

“I’m here, husband.” Called out wearily, prompting Rhaegar to push on past the looming knight and ignoring the cheerful grin Arthur gave the other Dornishman behind his back.

Elia was huddled over Rhaenys’ shaking form, cradling a wailing Aegon to her breast and stroking her crying daughter’s head with her free hand. His wife whispered nonsensical words of comfort to their children, and Rhaegar found himself collapsing by her side to take their son.

The blood on his hands stained the outside of the blanket the wailing babe was wrapped in, but Rhaegar could hardly bring himself to care. They were all alive. They were _safe_. For now.

“As much as I’d like to give you the time for a tearful reunion, we really need to leave.” A new voice broke over them, and with curses Lewyn and Arthur were both reeling about, blades out.

Jaime Lannister grinned, holding out his hands in a gesture of surrender. The lively sunshine curls framing his face couldn’t distract from the bloodless pallor of the young knight’s skin. “Easy there, big boys.”

“Ser Jaime.” Rhaegar greeted neutrally, rising to his feet. “Where exactly do you believe we’re going, and why would you wish to accompany us?” A swish of fabric told him Elia was rising up behind him.

“Anywhere is fine with me at the moment. Just looking for a change of scenery, if you catch my meaning.”

“We do.” Elia agreed, pure steel lining her voice and sounding not all like the quiet, gentle woman Rhaegar was accustomed to. “There is no time to waste. Can you lead us out of the keep from a secret passage, husband?”

Nodding in agreement, Rhaegar cradled Aegon closer to his chest and stepped back into the bloodstained halls.  


* * *

“I thought you were leading us out, not further in.” Ser Jaime pointed out as the fugitive party retreated to her husband’s rooms, and Elia just barely bit down on the urge to tell the young knight to _keep quiet_. The query had been little more than a whisper, and the stretched state of her nerves didn’t excuse lashing out at the boy for no reason.

“I am.” Rhaegar pointed out, closing and bolting the door as the last of their group filed in. Tearing the bloodstained nightclothes from his body, her husband hurried to squirm into a leather doublet and dark trousers. If the situation was less dire, Elia might have even taken the time to admire the sculpted planes of the Prince’s body.

Hurrying along after, Elia set Rhaenys onto Rhaegar’s tangled bed before ducking behind a dressing screen to pull on a thick woolen gown. She had her own chambers separate from her husband, but the maids always ensured that she would have clothes of her own to wear in case Rhaegar wished to enjoy his husbandly rights.

Not that he ever did, the Dornishwoman thought spitefully.

Steel clanged faintly as Arthur scrambled to help shoved Rhaegar into his midnight black plate, and she almost rolled her eyes. _Men_. Though in all fairness, if there was more battle it _would_ be helpful. And she’d rather not insult their blatant machismo if it insured her children grew up with a father.

“Push the red brick hidden beneath the fireplace grate.” Rhaegar instructed her uncle as the Prince belted his sword back around his waist.

While Lewyn hastened to find the trigger for whichever hidden door Rhaegar was speaking off, Elia hastened over to the jewelry box atop the wardrobe. It was full of rings and other baubles, but would serve to barter for food or supplies if they needed it.

A grate of stone drew her dark eyes, and Elia blinked in surprise at the dark cobwebbed tunnel that was revealed by the swing of an entire section of wall on the opposite end of the room from the fireplace.

Aegon was pushed into her arms by Arthur with careful hands, a new white sheet replacing the formerly bloodstained one. Rhaenys was clad in little more than her shifts and one of her father’s shirts hanging down to her ankles.

“Come.” Rhaegar ordered, all the raw passion and emotion that had been riding in his voice successfully repressed. The Lannister knight picked up her daughter as Rhaegar plunged ahead of them into the shadows.

Elia hurried along after him, repressed the desperate urge to sneeze as dust tickled her nose. Another grate on stone echoed behind them as Lewyn shoved the wall back in place, plunging the refugees into complete darkness.

Then fire flared, sickening green and casting ghoulish shadows. Rhaegar swept his gaze over their group, indigo eyes assessing their readiness even as Elia shoved down the thrill of horror. _Wildfire_. The Targaryens used wildfire in their secret passages for torches rather than oil.

Nodding silently, Rhaegar swung back around and led them through a twist of dark dusty tunnels. They scurried along in silence, suppressing Aegon’s cries with a wet rag for the babe to suck. It seemed like days passed as they burrowed deep into the dark beneath the earth.

The scent of damp was so faint at first, Elia wondered if it was little more than her imagination. Yet it grew stronger and stronger, until the tang of seawater was so strong she begin to have an inkling to their destination.

A final turned, and they burst into the night on the banks of the Blackwater. The sudden shock of rain hitting them drove Aegon into a squeal, patting over their armor and clothes in a sprinkle. Mud sloshed around her boots as she quickly scanned the horizon for torchlight or soldiers, and finding none to her relief.

“Where to now?” Jaime muttered, a low somber note in his voice that was uncharacteristic of the typically japing knight.

“Dorne.” Elia frowned when Rhaegar swung his head about to look at her in surprise. “Where else to, Rhaegar?” the Dornishwoman pointed out rhetorically. “Everywhere else is either crawling with loyalists or crawling with rebels. My brother will protect us.”

“That is true.” Her husband agreed, motioning them further down the banks to a ramshackle collection of shack. “But first, I think completing our escape might be a good idea.”

Leaping about a moored little more than a collection of lashed logs, Rhaegar began shoving a collection of barrels into the water to clear space for the rest of their party to board. Keeping hold of a few ragged tarps, the Prince threw them over the moonpale armor of the Kingsguard knights accompanying them.

The three hurried to cover up their distinctive mail, crouching about the corners of the raft in tense balls. Elia shook her head when her husband offered her one of the fish-stinking tarps for her own, preferring to pull the head of her cloak up and huddling in the middle with her son in her lap and daughter leaning against her side.

Rhaegar chose to wrap his tarp about himself, hooding it over his head. Steel flashed beneath the moon as her husband cut the lines to free the ramshackle raft. Watching as the Prince pushed them away from shore with a long pole and used it to encourage their route downstream, Elia was struck by a nonsensical thought.

Clad in tattered black cloth that hooded his whole face save for peeking silver strands and burning indigo, Rhaegar looked very much like some demonic bargeman out of myth, ferrying their souls to damnation.

Elia hoped this demon bargeman would prefer to ferrying them to salvation.

Rain continued to patter down around them as they drifted downstream in silence. Aegon was lulled back to sleep by the low sound and quiet burble of the Blackwater Rush as the current pushed them gently downstream and out to the bay.

Rhaenys drifted off to a fitful sleep soon after, unable to push past the fatigued burning in her eyes like the adults of the group. They proceeded in silence, floating over a winding river of black glass and stars until dawn began to burn pink streams in the eastern sky.

It was not until the raft gave a slight bump beneath her, startling her from her stupor as they landed along the south shore of the bay. Elia blinked her tired eyes, before a low flush burnt her dusky cheeks as she realized she’d spent hours staring at her husband as the man ferried them to safety. She’d probably looked like a besotted fool.

What was odder was that unless he needed to turn his attention and use the pole to pull them closer to shore or push them away from it, Rhaegar had spent most of the night staring back at her.  



	2. Chapter 2

Prying the last dimly glittering blood ruby from its place studding his breastplate, Rheagar dropped it into the pouch by his foot. The Prince gave the now unadorned ebony a final cursory inspection before propping it against the wall of the cave beside him.

Elia dozed lightly in the hidden back corner of the cave, Aegon slumbering in his swaddle of blankets beside her. They'd been forced to take shelter in the worn seaside grotto on the southern shore of Blackwater Bay when the sun began to peek over the horizon.

Sighing tiredly, Rhaegar pulled his daughter into his lap and began to stroke her hair. Rhaenys had alternated between sniffles, confused queries, and utter silence. It made him worry, and Rhaegar knew that she'd be marked by their harrowing night and the upcoming journey for the rest of her life.

The Prince of Dragonstone picked a ruby from the pouch and pressed it into Rhaenys' hands. The light peeking in from the entrance to the cave sent red sparkles through the fine cut gem, and it would hopefully keep his daughter quiet and occupied.

Metal creaked lowly as Arthur shifted from his sprawl directly opposite Rhaegar. Stiffness was undoubtedly working its spell even on the legendary Sword of the Morning the Targaryen considered with wry amusement. Prince Lewyn was further in an around the corner, taking short naps while the Martell guarded his niece and grand-nephew from everyone and everything.

A discarded pile of white male and plate was all that was left from Jaime Lannister, the blonde knight having stripped his armor and taken off to the nearest farm for supplies. Rhaegar had instantly wanted to protest when Ser Jaime offered to go, wary of Tywin Lannister's son. But Elia had pointed out that while blonde's were a common enough sight, Dornishmen or a Dornishwoman would look odd, and the sudden appearance of someone with Valyrian blood would be even stranger to the smallfolk.

So Rhaegar had quieted, turning himself to popping out the distinctive and ornate three headed ruby dragon studded in his breastplate. The Kingsguard armor was too distinctive to accompany them any further, but black plate was not so odd in the hedge knight Rhaegar was going to pretend to be.

Plain black and artfully dirtied armor, travelling on foot with his distinctive silver hair smeared with some herb Elia swore would turn it brown and keep it such until washed with alcohol, and wrapped in a makeshift cloak, Rhaegar supposed he would look nothing in the least like himself.

Footsteps crunched the sand outside, and with a quick look at Arthur, Rhaegar readied himself for battle. Search parties were surely out looking for them at this point, though he'd assumed they'd travelled far enough by barge to be outside of the immediate search radius.

A young face peered around the lip of the cave entrance, and Ser Jaime gave a mocking smile. "A bit on edge are we? It's just me – someone hardly particularly dangerous."

"I would think that the Kingswood Brotherhood would disagree with you if it were still around, Ser Jaime." Arthur deadpanned, motioning his sworn brother in with an impatient hand.

Jaime stepped inside, blinking against the sudden darkness and hefting a bulging sack in one hand. "I come bearing tribute for the esteemed Kingsguard and His ever eminent Grace." The young Lion japed, sweeping into a courtly bow that was totally at odds with his plain boiled leathers.

Looming out of the shadows, Lewyn gave a tired smirk and reached for the sack. "We must thank you for your most generous gift, Ser Jaime. We are sure it will be most pleasing for His Grace."

"Don't call me that."Rhaegar muttered as he took the sack for himself and peered inside. A few loaves of bread, a hunk of cheese, and some dried jerky. It might feed them for two days – long enough to reach an inn on the Kingsroad south.

"Don't call you what?"

"Your Grace."

"But aren't you?" Despite the teasing tone to his voice, Ser Jaime's emerald gaze was entirely serious. The hard look in the young knight's eyes was mirrored by his Sworn Brothers.

Swallowing at the sudden dryness of his mouth, Rhaegar thinned his lips. "Yes, he is." Elia's breath came suddenly next to his face, the warmth of her breath tickling his ear, and it took all of Rhaegar's self-control not to jerk away in shock.

Turning to stare at Elia, Rhaegar took in the steel cast to her dark eyes and found his mouth moving without conscious thought. "Yes, I suppose I am." The declaration seemed to make everything real to him then. The accusation of treason. His father's madness. Knives in the night that would have killed Rhaegar in his family, or brought him in chains to be burnt alive.

Some part of Rhaegar had always shied away from thoughts of ever being King himself. Time and again people had whispered at him to seize control. High Lords had discreetly offered the swords for him to do so. Yet despite knowing Aerys' madness first hand, Rhaegar's image of that mad creature had always been swallowed up by foggy memories of his father when the King was charismatic and kind, rather than paranoid and cruel.

Now Rhaegar found those fond memories covered up with the stink of burnt flesh and the wrinkled beast that sat on a seat of swords. "Yes, I am." Rhaegar repeated to those dark, intent eyes, confirming intent. There was no turning back from this point – it was a one way road to death.

Or the Iron Throne.

Elia's hand settled on his, warm and soft, giving a gentle squeeze. Whether she meant approval in the gesture, or comfort, Rhaegar didn't know.

* * *

Squinting at the faint smack of Aegon's waving hand on her cheek, Elia ducked under a low hanging branch and quickened her steps to be next to Ser Jaime. Rhaegar had insisted on walking at the point of their line, to meet any threat they came across first.

The Dornishwoman disliked the danger it would put her children's father in, but she could hardly argue against it. Rhaegar was the only one still clad in armor. Her uncle haunted her steps, ostensibly as a rear-guard, but Elia knew Lewyn's true motive was to be near at hand to her.

Arthur was weaving from the front to the rear, keeping a wary eye on the trees of the Kingswood. Which left Ser Jaime to carry Rhaenys and stay close to her. The aggrieved look the Lannister knight adopted from time to time made Elia more than aware of what the young man thought of his demotion from Sworn Brother to nursemaid.

Elia couldn't really find it in herself to give a damn. She was tired, sore, hungry, and fearful for the safety of her children. Both Arthur and Lewyn were better swords than Ser Jaime, and Rhaegar was armor clad. It was the safest option for her children.

Though it was riskiest for her husband, and the Martell woman was unsure how she felt about that. On the one hand, she'd be free to marry a second husband for love, or take a paramour for the same. There would be no humiliation from being set aside, or from her husband taking to the beds of other women. There would be no more cold nights, her husband never having lain with her since the conception of their second child.

However, the image of her husband's cold body on a pyre made her heart ache. Rhaegar wasn't a bad man, and did she really have the right to be selfish enough to wish for his death simply to make her own life more comfortable? Her son was little more than an infant, and surely the realm would suffer from a long regency – or Aegon's inheritance might be stolen and given to Viserys., if Rhaegar passed on.

And if Rhaegar passed on, she'd never feel the warm pulse of his hand under her's again. Or see that queer new look in his eyes that said _'I see you'_ rather than _'I see though you'_.

Nearly tripping over a loose stone, Elia nodded her thanks for Arthur's steadying hand on her elbow before turning to glare out at the nearly endless trees. Two almost silent days passing beneath the boughs of the Kingswood, nerves taut and ears keen for the slightest sound of horse or man was getting to her.

They surely had to be nearing some settlement. An inn by the Kingsroad that was barely visible at times to the side, the refugees following it but not daring to walk the road itself. Even some poor homestead amongst the trees would do. There had been no food for any other them for half a day, save Rhaenys, who'd eaten the last hunk of cheese.

If Elia didn't manage to find something to eat soon, she might just collapse from the hunger. Not for the first time, the Dornishwoman cursed the frailty she'd been born with. A hale and hearty man might do without food for several days before true weakness set in. Going without food was far more dire for her in a far shorter time.

Just another facet of her curse. She bruised easily, and was easily fatigued. Mild sicknesses in others laid her in bed for days. The muscles of her body weren't given to strength, and she'd never been able to learn the ways of the spear like nearly all Dornishmen and women did. Even her womb was frail, struggling to birth two children where some peasants birthed twelve and came up smiling like daisies.

The least the gods could have done if they were going to curse her with a good-father like Aerys Targaryen would be to give her a healthy body to truly _live_ in. Her weak flesh had been the first thing Aerys had mentioned after being told Queen Rhaella was expecting a child. The madmen had smiled, and turned to look at his good-daughter with ghoulish glee.

_'I will pray for a daughter that Rhaegar may take to wife. Would you prefer that, slut? If We are feeling merciful we might even allow you to crawl back to those sand holes you call home. Neither We nor Our son have particular need of a barren whore. Though perhaps Viserys might enjoy a sand bitch to fuck in a few years...'_

Everything in her had revolted at the mere thought of it. Years of burning innocent people and raping his own sister had made it very clear what sort of creature Aerys Targaryen was, but Elia knows it was that moment more than any other that taught her what it was to truly hate someone.

At least Aerys had never taken it to mind to come looking for Elia to sate his lusts, as the Mad King did to his own wife and numerous servants. If he had, her children might have grown up motherless, with their father's wife executed for regicide. It probably would have been better for the realm if he had.

How Rhaegar could not have taken it upon himself to overthrow Aerys was beyond her. Perhaps the treason came to her so easily because Elia had never at any moment considered Aerys Targaryen anything remotely resembling a father. Filial duty stayed Rhaegar's hand for too long, and the Seven Kingdoms would bleed for it.

Even at the last, her husband had struggled with the thought of it. Elia had seen the turmoil in Rhaegar's face, and heard it in his voice when Ser Jaime and her uncle addressed him as 'Your Grace'. Duty had hung its chains heavily on her Silver Prince, staying his claim to Kingship despite treachery and madness on the part of his father.

So she'd taken his hand and spoken for him. Urging him with every fibre of her being to stand up and fight. Fight for the realm. Fight for the people. Fight for their children. Fight for her. Fight for himself. And when Rhaegar had looked at her with those heavy eyes and agreed, something unnameable had sparked.

* * *

Metal rattled in the evening breeze as Rhaegar stepped over the threshold of the Smiling Inn. There had been an inn in the Kingswood for generations, names passing in and out of memory as son inherited business from father and changed the name to suit personal taste.

From the disgruntled expression on Arthur's face, Rhaegar decided that whichever son had inherited the inn in this generation was the most macabre of them all. Naming the tavern after the Smiling Knight of the Kingswood Brotherhood was ill omened enough. Having the murderer's armor on display outside, chained and hanging from the building's eves was utterly grisly.

Rhaegar decided that if he could change the past, he would have asked Arthur to bring the whole body back as proof, rather than only the madman's head. It would have been more work for his friend, but it would spare the Dornishman this. And Ser Jaime, for that matter, considering that pale whiteness of the usually laughing Lannister's face.

Pulling his ragged makeshift cloak closer about his person, Rhaegar peered through the dim golden light of the hearthfire before making his way to the innkeep. "I would have two rooms." He rasped, pitching his voice low and gravelly. "We have little coin, but this might be enough to barter."

Digging into his satchel, Rhaegar hunched further towards the suspicious corpulent man. Much of Elia's jewelry that had been smuggled out with them from the Red Keep was too garish and obviously rich to barter so near to King's Landing. But there were some pieces that were plain enough.

The unadorned curving snake bracelet he set on the bar had been a gift to his wife from Oberyn for her nameday some years past. Rhaegar had pitied the faintly desolate expression that crossed Elia's face when she chose it as their barter piece, but the Dornishwoman had insisted.

_'Better a dead piece of gold than our lives, husband.'_

The innkeep scooped the bracelet up to peer at it closer. After the man spent a good moment humming over it and stroking his bristly brown beard, the man gave a small nod of approval. "Top of the stairs, last two on the left." The man instructed gruffly, pushing two simple iron wrought keys towards Rhaegar.

"My thanks."

"That'll get ya a few hot meals in yer bellies too." The innkeep added after a moment, washing his thick hands with a wet rag. "I'll have me boy sent up with some mead and meat for ya."

"My thanks again."

Turning towards Arthur and Elia where they huddled anxiously by the door, Rhaegar jerked a thumb towards the cramped stairwell behind the hearth. Ser Jaime and Lewyn shift behind him, following their uncrowned King like little ducklings when Rhaegar makes for the stairs.

Elia breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped into the cluttered room her bracelet had bought them. Watching his wife collapse bonelessly on the bed with their son, Rhaegar is unable to suppress the small quirk of humor at the corner of his lips.

Three days since it felt like his world had tilted on its axis, and Rhaegar was still adjusting to the changes of it. The once well groomed silver strands he had taken such hidden vain pride in hung instead brown and lank into his face. There was dirt under his nails and the faint sourness of unwashed bodies clung to all of them. He'd never been so dirtied in his life – even before and after the battlefield.

Yet despite that Elia never made a single peep of complaint or disgust, and that utterly befuddled Rhaegar. Despite being Dornish, his wife was courtly, and quiet, and sweet-natured, and gentle. The Martell he married had been the ideal Westerosi noblewoman, despite her olive skin and the faint accent to her voice.

Elia had never been this daunting creature, watchful and weary. The woman Rhaegar had married never displayed the steel to push him towards the Iron Throne with her own declaration and challenge in her gaze. She'd never walked with an air of barely restrained wildness, blowing hot and cold like the contrary passions of her homeland.

Yet she had. Rhaegar believed in prophecies, blood and fire, the return of dragons and magic. But he sincerely doubted Elia had been replaced between one moment and the next with some fairy changeling. The woman that stepped calmly over the bodies of Aerys' dead men clad in nothing but her shift was the same woman that kissed his cheek dutifully in greeting at the court, and she was the same woman before him cradling their son with an expression of devoted love and tenderness.

It was not that Rhaegar had met three different women. Those faces were all Elia, and it was the most familiar one to him that the Targaryen would peg now as the least true. Because despite having married her, lain with her, gotten two children on her – it was becoming very clear that Rhaegar didn't actually know anything about his wife at all.

Rhaenys squeezed his hand, prompting the man to swing his daughter up into his arms and hug her closely. His daughter deserved better than to be wandering the roads half-starved, dirtied, in little company but men she barely knew and parents that understood absolutely nothing about one another.

"Stay here with your mother." He ordered softly, striding next to the little bed Elia was lounging on and handing Rhaenys to his wife. Unable to meet the new unveiled steel in his wife's eyes, Rhaegar directly his indigo gaze absently towards the door. "I will find us hot water and a washcloth, have you need of anything?"

Staying only long enough to register Elia's quiet denial, Rhaegar fled the room. Finding a bucket and soap to wash with was little more than an excuse to have some time away from his wife's daunting new face, and the strange thrills it gave him.

* * *

Rhaenys squealed happily when Elia set her down in the warm, soapy water of the washtub Rhaegar had fetched. The little princess splashed and slapped at the suds, putting a fond smile on her mother's face. It was strange and wonderous Elia mused, how young children could so easily bounce back from upheaval when they had the support of parents who loved them.

"I must admit Ser Jaime, I'm at a loss as to why you wanted to come with us." Rhaegar's voice was low, but passed easily in the quiet room to Elia's ears, and the Princess of Dorne found her own curiosity urging her to lend their conversation some attention.

"What, can't I be interested in seeing new sights? Adventuring about the Realm with a sword in hand and a song in my heart?"

Elia didn't even bother to contain a snort of humor and disbelief. "I would think that if you desired such a thing Ser Jaime, you'd be running about Essos rather than agreeing to serve on Aerys' Kingsguard." Working her fingers into the thick waves of her daughter's hair, Elia went about removing the tangles that had knotted in Rhaenys long dark strands since that night.

"I wasn't aware that refusal or resignation was an option, Your Grace." Jaime returned, weariness laying thick on his tone. Elia felt her heart break a little for the Lannister, barely more than a boy and shoved into a position he had little desire for as part of the game of thrones.

"No, I suppose it wasn't." There was no need to turn to stare at Rhaegar for Elia to know that there would be an expression of guilt tinted with self-loathing on her husband's face to match that in his voice. The man hid much from her, but the Martell was hardly so blind as to miss the despair on Rhaegar's face when yet another of Aerys' sins bubbled up into conversation.

Melancholy silence hung while Elia pulled Rhaenys from the washtub and began to scrub the girl dry. Ser Jaime took the initiative to retreat with the dirtied water and a muttered excuse of finding more, leaving Elia alone with her husband.

"It's a great pity to see those so young paying for the sins of their parents." Elia murmured as she tucked the sleepy girl in next to her brother. The sudden warmth of Rhaegar's hand on her arm surprised her, and the Dornishwoman turned an inquisitive gaze up at her husband.

Only to nearly flinch back at the burning in Rhaegar's eyes and the heat in his voice. "Elia, I promise you." His voice rasped with some barely restrained passion torturing his throat. "I will never allow our children to suffer from my mistakes. I will never give them up or make them pay some price to appease myself or anyone else."

Stricken dumb, Elia was saved from having to coax a reply from her dry mouth by the sudden reappearance of Ser Jaime. The warmth of Rhaegar's soft grip fled when her husband pulled back, something like shame in those indigo orbs.

Ser Jaime bustled about aimlessly for a few moments, making nervous business with his hands as the young knight pushed the washtub about into an 'ideal' position. "Sometimes I thought about it, you know." The Lannister began conversationally. "Just pulling my sword and running it through your father."

Green eyes stared at Rhaegar with a mixture of self-reproach and defiance, the young lion's voice mingling apology with defensiveness. "It would just take me at odd times. Walking about the Red Keep. Standing guard outside his chambers. Riding through Flea Bottom. The first time was when he burned Brandon Stark."

Pain and memory crossed into Jaime's face, and the knight made an abortive gestures towards his face. As if he were attempting to wave away some foul scent. "You never really forget it. The screams were just unholy – the curses were normal enough, I'd heard things like that. But the screaming of pure agony, like some wild animal begging to be put out of its misery. The stink of burning flesh is like nothing else – it clings, hanging in your nose and mouth until you can scarcely eat without wanting to vomit. And the sight. All the skin and muscle just peeling back until there's nothing left but black bones and a spot of ash."

A laugh rang quietly in the room, note high and hysterical.

"I hated that spot more than anything. It was always there, just out of the corner of my eye. Day in and day out. All I'd have to do would be look at it, and it would all come rushing back. I'd say you can't understand it – but I know you do, Your Graces. You were there for that burning, and many others, weren't you? You never forget it, do you?"

"No, you don't."

Rhaegar's whisper was the roughest thing she'd ever heard bubble up from her husband's throat, and Elia spared a glance. And looked away immediately. Those eyes. Gods above, those _eyes_. How many nights had she seen the same utter desolation looking back at her from out of the mirror?

"I lived through many burnings. Many days and nights remembering those screams, that horror. I don't think it will ever go away – it just sinks its claws into you, and never lets go. You never forget." Rhaegar took a gulping breath before something like bitter amusement entered the air. "As for the matter of your little treason, I could hardly blame a man for thoughts that entered my mind, could I? I thought about it myself, at times. I think the realm would have been far better if I'd spent less time thinking, and much more doing."

There it was. Something like understanding, without blame or recrimination. Only absolution. And Elia could see how all the tension drained out of Ser Jaime, until the golden knight gave a crooked smile and excused himself for the evening.

* * *

When Ser Jaime was gone, the thick air hardly lightened. Elia wasted no time in stripping after the door was bolted, and Rhaegar turned away with his face flaming. The embarrassment was something brand new for him – he'd not even felt that flush the first time he'd seen his wife naked on their wedding night.

By the Seven, they'd made two children together with nary a batted eyelash. Yet even the illogic of the emotion didn't make him feel less like any peeping green boy when he stared into the corner and tried not to think about the splash of water on Elia's naked flesh.

Rhaegar distracted himself by weighing over the new veneer to his old shame. He should've expected something similar to what he'd heard from Ser Jaime when Rhaegar asked about why the Lannister had fled the Red Keep with them rather than remaining behind. Rhaegar had expected it, but expecting didn't lessen the blow of shame when it came.

Ser Jaime had been little more than a boy with stars in his eyes when Aerys rose him to the Kingsguard that day at Harrenhal. For all his later sarcastic japes, the Lannister had been a child weaned on the milk of legendary tales. Stories of the company he had joined. Barristan the Bold. The Sword of the Morning. The White Bull. Jaime had entered King's Landing with hope and innocence.

And it had ruined him. Destroyed any sense of inherent goodness and righteousness in the world that the young knight had. Just another of the many causalities of Rhaegar's indecision and cowardice. How much of Aerys' excesses could be laid at the feet of his inaction?

"You seem troubled, husband." Elia's hand was warm on his, and Rhaegar allowed himself to be gently tugged about to look at his wife. For all the darkness of his thought, the Targaryen still felt an unfamiliar heady rush at the sight.

Beads of water clung to her dusky skin, glittering like golden beads in the low candlelight. "Yes," the words spilling from his lips sounded odd to him, echoing through as from a strange distance to his ears. "I am troubled."

The silver marks of pregnancy marked here and there about her navel, crowning about her peaked dark nipples, flaring in and out of sight as they moved across the room. Water shifted, captured firelight flickers that trailed down to the shaven mound of her sex. Concern furrowed his wife's brow at his words, and the Dornishwoman silently urged him to sit on a low stool.

There were no more words exchanged that night. Rhaegar found himself yet unwilling to burden Elia with dark words and dark thoughts. For her part, his wife seemed content to let him have his silence, not pressuring as she stripped his own clothes from him until he was as naked as she.

Then she washed him, laving the still warm and soapy water over his form in gentle ministrations. It was queer to the point of shock, as no one since he'd been a child under his mother's hands had dared to even suggest such a thing as assisting his bathing. Elia showed none sign of uneasiness in either her expression or her motions, not even hesitating to comb through his dyed brown strands with patience or to take a cloth to his most private of areas to clean.

It was decidedly odd... but not displeasing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar is 23 in 282AC, Elia is 25, Jaime is 16, and Arthur has an unlisted birthdate, so I'd write him as 26. Rhaenys is 2, and Aegon is 1 (born slightly before the Tourney at Harrenhal). Just putting out the pertinent ages of anyone young enough to care about before I forget. Oh, and Oberyn is 24.
> 
> I'm not sure if that last scene feels a bit too fast for people. But do keep in mind that while Rhaegar is a very prim and proper sort, Elia is Dornish. Even if she plays a good Andal, and acts like one most of the time, she really can't be bothered at the moment to play a game of "Let's pretend propriety" with a man she has two children with and is married to. She might not be in love with him, but she's fond of him in her own way, and he is her husband. As for Rhaegar, his switch was flicked here just as fast and as senselessly as it was at canon Harrenhal – and for the first time in his life, he's come face to face with that emotion healthily developed people recognize as desire.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, and I make no profit writing any fanfiction of it. Further, I'd like it to be clear that in the case of any similarity between anything I write and the future work of any author writing the original work, that I hold no rights to any fanfiction. I make no claim to monetary compensation, and never will. For any intent and purpose, I cede any monetary rights to any fanfiction work to their respective authors.

Patting the tired old nag between her knees on the flank, Elia urged the brown palfrey into a slow amble. It made her feel a touch ridiculous to ride so slowly while the rest of her party walked alongside. The Dornishwoman was hardly a cripple, to need to be carried while her companions easily went about on their own two feet.

Uncle Lewyn had insisted though, citing her frailty and easy fatigue as worth trading the few dragons they had to a passing farmer on the road for the old beast of burden. Elia had protested of course, but when Arthur and even Rhaegar started urging her to accept it, she'd subsided with a grumble.

Some battles weren't worth fighting. A wicked smirk curved her lips when her husband unconsciously ran a hand over his shorn locks. Revenge, Elia considered airily, was _always_ worth it. "Is something the matter, husband?

The knot of Rhaegar's brow and queer twisting of the rest of his face almost drove Elia to laughter. It was as if the man couldn't decide whether he wished to favour her with a look of disgust, or force himself to courtly civility. A moment later royal training won out, and the murmured assurance he gave that nothing was amiss contained in it cool politeness.

"Papa short!" Rhaenys proclaimed solemnly, chubby legs kicking out to the side as she sat astride the palfrey in front of her mother. Leaning down to eye Rhaegar with luminous indigo orbs, the little girl gave the top of her father's head an exaggerated pat.

The sudden bark of laughter Rhaegar gave brought an absent smile to Elia's face. It was a shame the man chuckled so rarely. He truly did have a nice voice, all rolling bard's music and thrumming tones.

Aegon burbled along, the babe unaware of the reason for the humor but expressing his contentment with joy the way all children did. Her husband shifted their son in his arms, affection softening Rhaegar's stressed face even further, and Elia was struck with a sudden sense of longing.

What would it have been like to have been born in the barn with all the other peasantry? To be a healthy girl child, running in the sun with mud between her toes and the sun on her back? Then perhaps in the cusp of womanhood, with freckles about her skin, she'd meet a hedge knight.

Some bastard of a dragonlord's bastard, perhaps, with lyrical beauty in his voice and sharp skill in his fingers. They'd survive, not richly, but content with their lot. Elia might have had five or more children, rather than the mere two her fragile flesh would give. And more than one of them would have the old Valyrian hair and eyes of her husband.

There would be no murder in the night. No complications of king or kingdom, or grief, save the slow march of love and fondness through aged years. And at the last, to give up the ghost after spending a long, happy life together with a Rhaegar that looked at her with the same tenderness he gave their children.

Little more than a castle on the air they could never have. They had complications of king and kingdom, and the beat of war drums in the air and crimson steel through the shadows. Elia would never have more children to love, and Rhaegar would never love her the way he loved their children.

Ah, but here was the bitter taste of life. The only life Elia would ever know. Distracting herself from the sudden burning in the corners of her eyes, the Martell combed absent fingers through her daughter's strands.

"Ware, niece." Lewyn suddenly warned from along her other side, tension thrumming in her uncle's breath. Looking up, Elia spied a small troop of horses in the distance, rapidly closing until she could faintly pick out the Tyrell rose adorning their tabards.

Shaking her head in annoyance, Elia wrapped a cautionary arm around Rhaenys' waist as the girl peered ahead curiously. Encountering wary soldiery was their due. The war with the rebels was still new, and in the early stages of such a clean campaign the countryside was better patrolled and the laws were better kept than they had ever been.

Banditry and murder would come later on, when the death toll climbed. Desertion and desperation would reduce civilized man to beast. Fire and war would burn, and the roads would teem with criminals as the High Lords could no longer spare the manpower to patrol them.

"Hail strangers!" The commander of the Tyrell troop called out, pulling his horse to a stop in front of the disguised refugees. A red kerchief about the arm distinguished the broad, bearded man from his fellows as their leader. "Where are you off to with the war all about these parts?" the tenor was friendly enough, but the soldier did little to disguise his suspicion.

"South to Bitterbridge, ser." Rhaegar offered, thickening his tone with the coarse vowels of Flea Bottom. Elia spared a thought of admiration for her husband's skill with the voice. If he'd been commonborn, her husband would have done well enough as a minstrel or at the theatre. "We hear there's coin to be had for any man willing to fight with Lord Tyrell's armies."

"Aye, there is that." Casting a gimlet eye about, the commander took in their appearance. Arthur was dressed in thin leathers, dirt crusting the surface. Lewyn and Jaime looked no better, their own faces artfully powdered with dirt and flecked mud. Rhaegar stuck out like a sore thumb with his armor. "Seems a bit fine armor for a scullion from the Bottom."

"It was a gift from me pa." Rhaegar defended, shuffling about on his feet as if he were little more than an embarrassed stripling. "T'was the only thing old Rykker would give me, ma said."

The suspicion faded from the soldier's face, and he shook his head ruefully. "Off you go then, bastard." His voice was layered with contempt. The focus shifted to Elia. "Seems a bit strange to be taking a woman along with you lads. Though I suppose I know what she's for." The captain shifted his horse closer, staring with a look that made Elia's stomach sink like a stone.

"Don't suppose you'd mind giving us a bit of a taste, aye?" A thick hand settled over her knee, coarse digits running to touch the inside of her thigh. Blood rushed in Elia's ears, rage and shame mingling with fear.

Then steel flashed beneath the sun, burning with light as Rhaegar reduced the commander's throat to a red ruin in a single stroke. Rhaenys and Aegon screamed, huddling closer to their parents as Rhaegar took the reins of Elia's shuddering nag and _pulled_ them away.

Shouts rang out among the mounted men, each fumbling for their own swords and swearing with shock and fury. The mounted man had an advantage over the man on foot. He was of a height, able to move with speed, and the horse between his knees served to trample others underfoot.

But no horse could put common born soldiers on the same level as one of the Kingsguard. Ser Jaime pulled one of the soldier's form his bucking horse, throwing the man to the ground even as Arthur shoved Dawn beneath the arm of a second.

Elia stared at the man Arthur had killed in a daze, taking in the macabre display of a dead man riding his horse even as Jaime shoved his blade through the chin of the man he'd thrown to the ground. Arthur sliced through a second man's head in the corner of her vision.

It was only when the last man broke to flee, horse cantering in a circle as he urged it to run, that Elia broke out of her spell. The crash of thunder and flesh as Lewyn threw his spear through the soldier's back made the Martell woman flinch.

"Well." Jaime declared over the sounds of Elia's screaming children, his voice incongruously cheerful. "It seems we've found ourselves some horses."

 

* * *

 

 

Straightening his Tyrell tabard, Rhaegar grimaced at the quiet crunch of dried blood. The Targaryen had little room to complain, considering that while he had to wear a dead man's standard, the rest of the knights in their refugee group had to dress in the armour of dead men.

Necessity called for grisly measures, it seemed. And the benefit of being able to move through the countryside on horseback in disguise as one of Aerys' soldiers far outweighed their scruples. Rather than the slower overland route to Highgarden, they could cut directly south to Summerhall.

Then past that shadow of fire and grief that hung over his birth, the Boneway, Castle Wyl, and Dorne. Rhaegar wished he could have the same faith Elia did in her kin and their spears. But he'd believed in his father when he was a boy, and trust in Aerys had never gained him anything but loss.

It was far more likely that Rhaegar was riding to his death. An adult King had to be bent the knee to – obeyed and followed. But an infant King was little more than a toll of authority in whichever set of hands cradled him. He would carry Aegon and Rhaenys to the lands of their mother's kin, and then the Dornish would quietly murder him.

Somehow, Rhaegar couldn't even dig out enough resentment to feel outraged over it. By rights, he should have been furious at the thought of being dispossessed and done away with. Dorne would rule the Iron Throne through his son.

Prince Doran would probably be a better father than Rhaegar had been, and Aegon might grow up hostage to the Dornish, but his son's binds were more likely to be silk and love rather than steel. Rhaenys would grow strong under the sun, with spear in hand.

And Rhaegar would pass away into the annals of history, a footnote of futility and cowardice in the bloodstained accounts of his father's reign. Viserys would survive on Dragonstone with his mother and unborn sibling, unshadowed by Aerys' sins. Unlike Rhaegar, who was complicit through his inaction.

Shifting in his lap, Rhaenys beamed up at him with a gummy smile, one of the trinkets they'd snuck from the Red Keep clutched in her fist. Despair burned in Rhaegar's throat as he grinned back, tickling his daughter's sides and listening to her delighted squeals.

Gods be good, but he was selfish enough to want more. Rhaegar wanted to see his children grow. To see Aegon's first words, to teach Rhaenys the courtly dances. He wanted to tell them the stories dragons, with their black skulls hanging on the walls, the way his mother had told him. He was selfish enough to hunger for life.

Selfish enough to want to die too. So that he didn't have to watch the adoration Aegon looked at him with turn to disgust. Never wanted to see the childish belief Rhaenys had that her father could do anything be replaced with the knowledge that Rhaegar could do nothing. Rhaegar had no desire to be in the world when his children realized their father had caused an absurd amount of death and destruction through his complacency and cowardice.

Selfish enough to want the benefits of both life and death, and indecisive enough to force that choice on others. It was just as well that his initial assumptions had been wrong, and the it was Aegon, not Rhaegar, who was the Prince who was Promised. Undoubtedly his feeble resolve would have doomed them all to ice unending, demons with blue stars for eyes reigning supreme over a land of ghosts. Just as his feeble resolve had doomed a generation to blood and steel, young men murdered and young women raped as the asking price for his inaction.

_Weakling._

Warmth settled into Rhaegar's side as Elia sunk down beside him, Aegon dozing sleepily in her arms. They had not dared light a fire without at least several days travel between them and the soldiers they'd cut down. Dinner had been little more than water and dried beef, leftovers from the last homestead they'd bargained with.

"I never thanked you for what you did today." Elia pointed out to him, voice soft in the dark. The last nail of the moon's turning cast silver light over her features, sparking her dark eyes luminously. Rhaegar didn't need to ask what she was thanking him for. He knew.

Though why she thought she was obligated to thank him for that unthinking storm of rage that burned through his veins and the murder that following, Rhaegar couldn't have said. Elia's hand settled over his, blooming the odd warmth in his stomach that he'd first noticed that fateful day in the seaside cave when she declared he was king.

Pressing her lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss, Elia breathed "My hero." In teasing tone. Rhaegar rather suspected he would have appreciated the gentle jape that accompanied the courtly gesture in normal circumstances.

Normal circumstances that did not include the great lurch his heart gave, or the heat in his cheeks when she touched him.

 

* * *

 

 

Cradling Aegon to her breast in a makeshift sling made from a stolen cloak, Elia urged the white destrier she rode into a canter. As much as she wished to kick the beast into a gallop and feel the wind in her hair, the Dornishwoman was constrained by the need for her son's safety.

The destriers the whole party rode were a great improvement over the old nag Elia had been riding on a few days past. Not to mention her feet. Though saddle sores would be a poor trade for aching heels. Luckily, equestrianism had been one of the few physical exertions her parents had permitted back in Dorne, and Rhaegar had never reprimanded her for the rare horse ride she'd taken in King's Landing.

Though she'd never been permitted to ride too quickly or too harshly, her mother almost apoplectic with worry over Elia accidently breaking her maidenhead at a gallop. The possibility of a good northern match had always weighed heavily on Elia's parents, and when Tywin Lannister spurned the Martells it only became that much more of an obsession to trump the old lion.

If not for Oberyn, grinning softly in the moonlight as they snuck out to ride their mounts over the cool desert sands, Elia would never have known the freedom only attained astride a racing sandsteed. Even with her father dead and her mother witless, Elia could hardly bring herself to care about the years of snuck outings and lies. She'd bled for Rhaegar, so it had all worked out.

An itching began between her shoulderblades, and Elia didn't even have to turn her head to feel a heated gaze digging into her back. The first day it had been an embarrassment. The second day had been an annoyance. The third had been incredulity. On the fourth, the Martell couldn't even give a filled chamberpot about the fact that _Rhaegar kept staring at her_!

If she'd known the reaction to her little tease would have been day after day of her husband looking at her when Rhaegar thought she wouldn't notice, Elia would never have dared to do it at all. Those indigo eyes were never angry or offended. She sincerely doubted the man was nursing some unnamed hurt.

It was simply odd. At first, Elia had wondered if she'd been too bold and too open. If Rhaegar had seen the actual thankfulness and bashful affection beneath the jape. Then she'd gotten angry. If he had such a problem with her, the Targaryen could afford to be a man and simply come out and say it. Then the confusion hit, and Elia turned to stare back with an utterly befuddled expression – only for Rhaegar to look away with a faint redness to his pale skin.

"I give up." Elia muttered to herself, shifting Aegon closer as her words were lost beneath the slow clop-clop of hoofbeats. Let the man stare at her all he liked with that queer assessing gaze. Everyone knew the Targaryens were a touch odd, and if looking like he wanted to peer into her soul was the extent of Rhaegar's oddities, Sevens be praised.

Better an inhuman and almost inappropriate inquisitiveness rather than ecstasy at the thought of burning someone alive. She'd heard the rumors that Aerys was sexually aroused after a death by flame, and would promptly rape his wife after dismissing all observers.

Elia had never worked up the courage to ask any of the watchful, stressed, and occasionally dour Kingsguard around her if the rumours had truth to them. If they were not, the mental image was one that every person in existence could do without. If they were true, Elia didn't have the heart to remind them of those smoky times.

"There's a village up ahead!" Arthur shouted as he race back from across the horizon ahead, returning from his self-assigned scouting. The Stony Dornishman smiled with relief in his violet eyes. They'd been running low on supplies again, refilling their water from tiny streams and rationing the last of their bread.

The fatigue seemed to lift from all of them like early morning fog blow away by the heat of the sun. The mere thought of soft beds, warm food, and a bath lifted Elia's flogging sprits. It was likely little more than a logging settlement at the foothills of the Red Mountains the stretched up to scrap the southern sky in the distance, but even the news of it tasted like hope.

"Well what are you waiting for?" Elia laughed, high and clear in a pure note that Rhaenys responded to with a giggle of her own. Ser Jaime flinched at the sudden noise, giving the Martell a reproachful look she completely ignored. "Lead on Arthur!"

 

* * *

 

 

"Did you hear? The Mad King murdered his son. Burnt him alive in the fancy red castle of his."

Rhaegar almost spilled the pitcher of wine he clutched in his hands. They were far enough from King's Landing that he'd dared to barter with one of the rubies prised from his armor rather than with one of Elia's remaining trinkets. It was likely worth far more than the few plain gold Dornish bands she had left.

_(But he'd seen the soft way she would sometimes stare at them, old fondness and sadness mingling in her face.)_

Twisting to look at a pair of grimy Stormlander lumberjacks, Rhaegar considered the risk to himself. Briefly. He was done being a coward.

Wood creaked alarmingly as Rhaegar dropped down heavily next to one of them, shaking the wine pitcher in silent offer. "What's this I hear about the Prince?" he rolled, the filthy Flea Bottom accent thick and greasy on his tongue.

Both raised their eyebrows at him in surprise, before shrugging and holding out their own goblets."News out of King's Landing by raven, so I hear." The one across Rhaegar shrugged, black beard bristling. "Mad Aerys went and burnt his son alive for talking back too much they say. The King says the Prince o' Dragonstone ran off. I think he did it to cover it up."

" _You_ think? Well I don't know how much I can trust that. You'd believe toads fell from the sky." The other gave his friend a meaty punch to the upper arm, chortling as he slurped down the wine. Rhaegar repressed a wince at the waste. "More's the pity if it's true."

"Oh?" Rhaegar prodded, sipping his own Arbor red slowly.

"Wasn't a bad sort for a lord, that prince, to hear me mum say it. And not just 'cos he was pretty as a Lysene whore neither. Used to give anyone brave enough to ask a gold dragon when he was at them ruins south these parts."

Rhaegar let the lewd commentary on his appearance roll over him. He'd heard worse before. "What ruins would those be?" There was an inkling in his mind. But surely they weren't that far south? Though without the towns on the roads to guide them they might have overshot the distance...

"The King's ruins. Or the Prince's. We could never decide really. Ol' Summerhall they used to call it, I think."

Unable to contain the faint smile that stretched his face, Rhaegar covered it with a swig of his wine. Better than he could have hoped or dreamt of truly. Summerhall was full of ghosts, but it sat on the clear road South. South to the Boneway, and to Dorne.

Filling the peasants' goblets in a cheered generosity, Rhaegar refilled his own before raising a curious brow. "Anything else you know that 'they say'?"

Cautious silence hung between them before the one across motioned Rhaegar closer while leaning in himself. Perhaps the man was a rebel informant, or the sort of overcurious man authorities loved to get rid of. But evidently the wine - both what Rhaegar had served and what the man had been drinking before – had served to loosen his tongue.

"Well you didn't hear this from me." The blackbeard murmured lowly, not even acknowledging Rhaegar's agreeing nod. "But I hear Dorne turned." Shock and worry nearly rocked Rhaegar back. Dorne had _turned_? He'd been counting on that support, but if they'd gone over to Arryn and his wards...

The surprise almost caused Rhaegar to miss the man's next words. "They say the Red Viper was up at Bitterbridge, training some recruits for the King when the Prince and his wife vanished. That night he hung them from the trees by their guts, and then poof! Was gone by morning with a thousand Dornish spears like a mummer's fart! No one knows where he went off to."

"I see." Rhaegar mused over the buzzing in the back of his head. Rising shakily to his feet, Rhaegar gave the two a nod of thanks before stumbling over to the barkeep for two flagons of Arbor red. They might need it.

Then Rhaegar fled upstairs, taking them two at a time before he burst in on his anxiously waiting party. Lewyn nearly gave him a spear to the throat in surprise, but the Targaryen couldn't even begin to care. Slamming down the flagons on the room's table, Rhaegar noticed the swiftly masked look of fear that crossed Elia's face.

The Targaryen took a deep breath, shoving all negativity down until nothing was left but serenity. "We have a situation." He began, looking pointedly at Arthur. The Sword of the Morning hurried to close the door while Rhaegar poured another goblet of wine for himself with slightly shaking hands.

"It seems your brother didn't take kindly to my father." Rhaegar started conversationally at Elia, staring at the glimmering dark eyes. "Either of them really. Word among the smallfolk is Dorne turned, and the Red Viper is apparently wandering somewhere in the Reach with a thousand Dornish spears after summarily executing a few hundred of Tyrell's green boys."

Lewyn laughed, rolling fond chuckles that abruptly silenced when Rhaegar gave him the filthiest look he could muster. Elia had swallowed down her own goblet of Dornish red, filling a second before shaking her head in thought.

"Doran isn't that impetuous." Rhaegar watched her through lidded eyes as she liberally whetted her lips with crimson Arbor wine, and he took in the sight of that crimson vitality in the basest part of his mind. "He would have waited for news of us. Oberyn has never been cautious enough, he did this on his own. And given the choice between hanging our brother out to dry or not, Doran would rather raise Sunspear for him."

"That sounds like Oberyn." Arthur agreed, holding a squirming Rhaenys in his lap when Rhaegar turned to take in his closest friend. "I wouldn't take it as some statement of independence. We Dornish have simply been always hotblooded."

"I agree." Elia murmured, soft hands grasping Rhaegar's left. "My brothers are acting out of emotion and grief. They will still give you their support." The uncrowned king could only stare at her, unable to work his throat. How could he even begin to explain that he might not want any support for himself, but rather only his son?

Tightening her soft hands about his, Elia leaned in with a pleading tone. She must have mistaken his silence for disbelief. "My husband – _Rhaegar_ – please _trust_ me."

A wood screeched along wood as Arthur shot to his feet. "I think I'm going to go for a little walk with the sweetling here." The Sword of the Morning favoured a faintly flushing Ser Jaime with a significant glance, and the other Kingsguard knight hurried to scoop Aegon up.

Both Sworn Brothers nudged Lewyn out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind them. Leaving the spouses alone, and Rhaegar released with a rush of embarrassment how they must appear.

Rhaegar turned back to his wife, who still held his hand looking vaguely lost at the sudden departure of the rest of their group. "Why would they...?" she trailed off, a faint drunken slur tinting her words. The drink was in them both, curling warm and dizzying.

"I think they saw something they didn't expect to see." Rhaegar sighed, which only appeared to befuddle Elia more. There was a bead of wine shining on her lush upper lip, and Rhaegar found himself leaning in. "You've got something on your mouth."

Elia's tongue darted out, pink and moist as it scoured her lips, and Rhaegar continued down _. 'This is most definitely not wise.'_ Drifted across the storm of his thoughts airily. _'I refuse to be a coward.'_ Then he pressed his mouth to her's, feather-soft and hesitant.

A sharp gasp came against his lips, and Rhaegar flushed with shame as he prepared to draw away. Of course not. It was a poor choice. The Targaryen couldn't even honestly guess why it had seemed like a good idea, save that he hadn't been thinking at all. Elia was his wife, not his lover – as if he'd had or would have such a thing.

Then Elia seized the collar of his leather jerkin, pulling Rhaegar back down and clumsily mashing their lips together. Their inexperience showed – they'd kissed many times chastely and dutiful. But never so messily.

Rhaegar burned. Heat coiled into him, digging ferocious coils into every shadow of his mind. It was the culmination of many strange days, warmth building like magma beneath a volcano until it exploded. There was nothing in the world but the tang of wine on her lips, or that unfamiliar spice of her mouth as their tongues mingling.

' _Here I die.'_

Frantically trying to recall the softness of her body or the scent of her arousal from the depths of dusty, dutiful memories was an exercise with futility. So Rhaegar took the only option left to him, and lowering his mouth to savour the salt of her skin.

Desire flared at the taste of her, and it _was_ desire. Foolish, unabating desire. That primal nectar Rhaegar had never known until he'd seen the steel of Elia's gaze, struggling to understand the strangeness. Ignoring how it had grown more and more until it was unbearable – until the world righted itself (or perhaps Rhaegar had righted himself after so long) with a rush of blazing fire in his veins. The old Rhaegar burnt to cinders, leaving something queer and new behind.

Something queer that drove Rhaegar back, parting from his wife with equally wild gazes and swollen lips. "No, Elia. Not like this." Disappointment brimmed in those luminous eyes, the last wisps of some dream dying away. "If we're to do this, I should like to do it properly. Court you properly." Gods be good, he sounded like a green boy who'd never seen a winter.

Pain flashed in the side of Rhaegar's face, a crack echoing through the room as he stumbled away. "I hadn't known you could hit that hard." He groaned, cheek still stinging from the slap.

Elia stared with some apoplectic fury. Rage dilated her pupils, a poisonous darkness growing within. "What about this do you think is _proper_ , Rhaegar?" the low whisper somehow cut deeper than a shrill shriek would have. "We've been married for _years_ , with two children! And such a thought occurs to you now? Were you dropped on your head as a child?"

"I don't think my mother would tell me if I was." Rhaegar shot back, stroking a hand over the rough silver stubble of his jaw that he would need to shave by morning. "I'm years too late, I think, to see what I should have seen the first day I knew you."

' _I will no longer be a coward.'_

"Yes, you are – you beautiful, silver fool." Elia rasped, world weariness flooding into her and bowing his Martell wife beneath some old, deep rooted pain.

"Slowness of wit is a most unattractive trait." Rhaegar chuckled softly with little humor, daring to step closer and cup her face between his hands. Wetness glimmered in her dark pools and he bored into her with a soft indigo gaze. "But I am in earnest. Tell me true. Do I presume?"

Tears welled up in Elia's eyes, flooding out in silver trails beneath the faint light of the moon that shone in from the window. "Yes, my husband, you do." She replied, smiling something between desolation and life. "Yes, you presume. You presume most boldly, most grievously, and most selfishly."

Flinching, Rhaegar ruthlessly suppressed his instant urge to flee and lick the wounds of his rejection. It was fairly, little more than he deserved. The latest stone in a cairn of sins. Failing to protect his mother from his father. Failing to temper Aerys' excesses. Failing to treat his lost little brother with proper kindness that Viserys would never receive from his father. Failing to recognize that Elia was someone he could want to be with – rather shunting her off to the side like little more than a brood mare to be treated with vague civility.

Delicate hands settled over his face, and Rhaegar watched silently as Elia traced soft thumbs over the high bones of his cheeks. A knot of aged sorrow seemed to knot its way out of her face, and when Elia smiled – tearful as it was, Rhaegar realized he'd never seen anything so breathtaking in all his years.

"Yes Rhaegar, you presume. But I welcome it."


End file.
